


Make a Wish, Kiddo

by Elialys



Category: Fringe
Genre: Drama, Family, Gen, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:46:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your daughter is still with you… even now." What if Simone's words meant more than what we saw? A different perspective on the current events of the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make a Wish, Kiddo

No matter the time of year, the Park always seemed to be covered with dandelions.

I remember, now.

_Go make a wish, kiddo._

Dad would let me go, and I would run on the grass, as fast as my legs would take me; I used to feel like I could outrun the wind.

I would sprint, searching for the best spot, wherever the puffy little white flowers and their yellow companions dominated over green; Mom and Dad followed, settling down nearby as soon as I made my choice.

Dad taught me all about dandelion seeds. He always took the time to explain everything to me, and I could have spent hours listening to him.

He told me how you must always make a wish on the first dandelion you blew; if you blew hard enough, wished strongly enough, each seed was then carried away.

They would travel so far and high that your wish would eventually come true.

Since most of my wishes _had_ the tendency to come true – wishing for chocolate ice cream or for some of grandpa's candies, I never doubted once that it was verified. So, I would make a wish on every first dandelion I blew. The rest of them were merely entertainment, the way any young child gets entranced by the simplest things; their reflection on the back of a spoon, or the endless delight from popping bubble wrap. Dandelions were among those that fascinated me the most.

I loved watching them drift away, imagining what it would be like to be so tiny, to hang on to one of the seeds, and be carried by the wind too.

For years, I had absolutely no recollection of this, virtually unknown to me like the memories of my parents. For two decades, the place they had in my heart was a hole their absence had created, a void no caregiver ever managed to fill.

I remember everything now, even from a time when I was too young to speak or interact with them in any way, aside from cries of hunger or discomfort, or with smiles they would always get from me.

Their faces are so clear. When I was only an infant, they were the only sights to behold, my solitarily perceived. They were my whole world, as I was theirs.

It's one of the perks of being dead, I guess.

There are no more barriers in your brain, blocking old memories. It makes sense; after all, once you're dead, you have no brain at all.

You just… are.

What I am right now, I can't tell. I died, that much is obvious; the memory of it is as clear to me as the millions others that swirl through me, awaiting only a thought to expend and take over, as if reliving it all over again.

I died, and yet, part of me is still here; I'm in between.

Maybe it's because of the anti-matter. Maybe it's because ghosts do exist, after all, despite my high skepticism on the matter; maybe it's because I was always special.

The bullet is what keeps me tethered. The bullet, and the way Mom clings to it.

From the moment of my death, she holds on to me, and never lets go.

…

When that moment came, I didn't want to die.

I had lived most of my life thinking I wasn't afraid to die, all too aware that it would probably happen much sooner than I'd like. You just don't expect to live until the old age of forty when you're both a Fringe Agent and a crucial member of the Resistance, particularly not when you have a tendency to be stubbornly risky.

I thought I wasn't afraid to die, and I probably believed it, too, for a while.

In all honesty, life had been tough overall; a real nasty bitch. When you live on a day-to-day basis, knowing that you could very well get killed on your next mission, and the world would go on unperturbed and overtaken by Invaders, your biggest preoccupation is to make sure you die taking a good handful of Baldies with you. If I managed that much, I thought I would have served my purpose on this damn, scorched Earth.

I hadn't thought like that anymore, not when I had just got them back.

My family.

I didn't want to die.

It was too soon.

The terror in Dad's eyes was almost more painful than the wound in my chest; it was shocking, to see such a broken and desperate expression on his face when I had become accustomed to his kind, comforting smiles over the passing weeks.

I realized in that moment how stupid I had been, to let myself feel like the child I once was, clinging to the unwavering certainty that I would be safe as long as he was here; my Dad was indestructible, my Dad loved me, my Dad would protect me.

_too soon_

Mom's distress wasn't as obvious, but just as real. She shook, much harder than I had, clear from her stricken expression that she tried not to panic.

Life really was a nasty bitch.

As it turns out –and it's not like I was exactly surprised by this notion- any kind of good thing that happens is eventually counterbalanced by something equally bad, if not worse. I knew that. I had to lose Simon to get Dad out of the Amber, I just didn't think getting them all back would mean having to put them through this so soon.

Dying felt as dreadful and painful as I imagined it could be, but watching _them_ watch me die was so much worse.

 _I'm sorry_ , I wanted to say.

I asked them to leave me there instead.

I had become the bait. Windmark thought he would get us all by shooting me; that my family would die along with me, because they wouldn't let me go.

But the joke was on those bald fuckers. I was going to serve my purpose, after all.

It didn't change the fact that I really didn't want to die.

"Etta," Mom's hands grasped my face, looking at me with a certainty and intensity she had been too cautious to really use with me in those few weeks.

Things had been complicated between us, much more complicated than with Dad, and I understand, now. While Dad had made me feel like a child again, allowing me to feel nurtured, Mom made me question the person I had become in their absence.

I had never liked questioning myself.

But isn't that what parents do? Won't they always see you as a child, regardless of age, and push you to be a better person, no matter what?

I had spent twenty-one years of my life searching for them, and still so many unanswered questions remained, all very different from the ones I used to ask Dad when I was three.

Mom and I struggled finding our way together, but we were getting there, learning more about each other one day at a time, taking baby steps, quite ironically.

Only hours prior had I told her about the bullet, the one clenched in my hand; the one I had retrieved from the wreck of our old home, on a day when I was feeling particularly lonely. That bullet had saved the world, at some point in the past, and I had been looking forward to hearing her tell me the rest of that story. But it would never happen.

It wasn't fair.

"I love you _so_ much," Mom told me.

I could barely feel my body and it was a relief, because that pain, deep in my chest, was truly becoming unbearable.

But that, her words, her love, I felt it.

I feel it.

I also felt the tug, pulling me upward, away from where I rested against the wall. I tried to focus harder on her eyes, but the force was so strong, and I was weakening.

_I don't wanna go, Mama._

"I know," I whispered in response, managing a smile, because I did.

I really did, and I wanted her to believe it too.

Using the very last of my strength, drawing in my dying breath, I moved my hand, almost imperceptibly, wishing with all my heart that she would notice.

I needed her to see the bullet, and to take it. Maybe it would bring her some comfort, once I had gone. Maybe it would help her feel closer to me. It had worked for me for years.

As I felt the delicate touch of her fingers upon my own, I exhaled for the very last time.

…

There is silence.

There is warmth, and there is peace.

Soon, all I am aware of is of the sky above me, so bright and clear. It is of a unique shade blue I now remember from my early childhood, a color that had progressively faded from the world when the atmosphere began to change.

_Why is the sky blue, Daddy?_

I'm back in the Park, my own little piece of Heaven. I'm bodiless, ageless, staring up at the clouds as they move, slowly, ever so slowly; I feel the earth move, beneath me, through me; maybe I have become part of the earth.

Then, they appear.

Hundreds of tiny seeds, drifting along, each of them a wish, a memory, gently carried away.

If I wanted to, I could take hold of one of them, and let the breeze take me too.

I don't, however. That uplifting pull I felt before, it has been replaced by something else, something that pulls from _within_ , despite the fact I don't have a _within_ anymore; I'm overwhelmed with images and sensations from my time on Earth.

I see the bright as well as the bleak, because even if it used to hurt, it was my life. I see Mom's smile and smell Dad's comforting scent; there are Mallory and Dave, who raised me as well as they could, considering I never was an easy child after losing my parents.

I see Simon, who I had admired and loved, who had taught me to make good use of my anger and my abilities instead of letting them eat me alive; he understood me, how I felt.

I see them, now, the patterns of my existence.

I had let my life be ruled by what I thoughts was a hopeless quest to find my parents, perpetually mad at my Dystopian world for depriving me of my innate right to choose. The only choices you were truly allowed to make were to tattoo your face with a poisonous symbol of loyalty, or to die for a cause that would never succeed.

Or so I thought.

Against all odds, I _had_ found my parents.

Our time together had been short, but I had come to learn so much in their presence. Among many things, my Mom had reminded me that despite my sullen mindset, I did possess the ability to choose, that not everything was black or white, and that my actions determined how grey something could be.

In her quiet ways, she had shown me that hope still existed, disguised in mostly foreign things to me, in small acts of mercy, or having faith.

The more I think of her, in this suspended space, the more intense the tug becomes. The seeds are moving farther away from my reach, their shape getting blurrier and indistinguishable, as the image of her face becomes progressively clearer.

_Mama…_

I see Dad, too, and I feel pain. I feel excruciating pain though I have no body, no nervous system, no substance, if not for these thoughts and in this awareness that I _am_ , despite it all.

Above all, I see the bullet, and feel the hope it had given me. Wherever she is now, Mom is cradling it in the palm of her hand, pressing it into that same warm skin I had felt against my cheek, time and time again as a child.

Hope.

Hope has the potential to change the world, but hope is so fragile and fleeting, I fear without me, it will die in my parents' hearts, the way it faded from the world, decades ago.

The way I'm fading too.

I have my freedom back, my right to choose, my free will; I can go with the wind, or I can linger _within,_ with them, just a little longer.

I choose them.

At least, for now.

…

_Why is the sky blue, Daddy?_

Rise and fall…rise and fall…rise and fall.

_Remember when we talked about the atmosphere?_

It was the movements of his chest that I felt, most of my small body resting upon his, the three of us lying on the picnic blanket. I loved the texture of his shirt against my face.

_Yes._

Thumpthump…thumpthump…thumpthump…

_Well, see, when the light from the sun shines into the atmosphere, most of the colors are able to reach the Earth's surface without stopping. Remember, what you see as white light is actually a combination of many colors._

It was the sound of his heart that I heard, and it was fascinating, how it followed the exact same rhythm that I felt under my palm, pressed on his chest.

_Like a rainbow?_

I loved rainbows. Whenever it rained, Mom took me outside once it had ceased, and together we searched the sky for all of the colors. I asked her once why we did that, because I always asked why, and she said it helped her remember someone she once knew, whatever that had meant. Mom's answers were always more mysterious; more intense, too.

The sky was perfectly blue, no clouds to be seen.

_Exactly. Except when you mix all colors together, you get white. When that white rainbow gets through the atmosphere, each color behaves a certain way, and because blue light has a wavelength that is the same size as the particles in the air, this light is scattered in every direction. The blue light bounces from particle to particle, until it eventually reaches your eyes. And this, kiddo, is why the sky is blue._

I heard a light chuckle, felt a soft touch in my hair; Mom's fingers. She knew I never _really_ understood what Dad said, sometimes teasing him about it, but mostly she just let us be.

She knew how much I loved listening to him talk, how he always answered my inquiries, even if it led me to wonder about the meaning of wavelengths, particles and 'scattered,' all questions I ended up asking him.

Eventually, I always became more interested in watching the other kids run around the Park than listening to his words, my young mind easily distracted.

But I would never get tired of the sound of his voice, his strong arm around me, or the smell of his shirt.

The only thing that usually stopped us from exploring the entire world was Mom, who enjoyed popping our bubbles by saying something about getting me home for a bath.

I think of air particles now, light bouncing off one to another as I bounce along with them, becoming, in turn, light and particles.

I move through time and space, unsubstantial, nonexistent, in a world in which I don't belong anymore.

Being _here_ is surreal. It's like hovering over water; no matter how clear the water, there are constant ripples, a soft distortion in everything I see.

I'm acutely aware these worlds exist in two separate planes, each on one side of the surface. They are similar enough to briefly interact on occasion, but ultimately, they are too different to meld.

No matter how much I wish I could dive right back in, I'm more _there_ than I am _here_.

Finding them isn't difficult, nothing compared to what I had gone through for years to find their ambered bodies. I travel through mere thoughts, now; all I have to do is concentrate on one of them, and I'm…here.

Finding them isn't difficult, but remaining at their side is a constant struggle.

Just like the world around them, they go in and out of focus, revolving in a universe that is either too slow or fast for me. The way I perceive them has nothing to do with their physical form, it's more about the way they feel. The air isn't the only thing made of particles.

Particles make up everything and everyone; people are surrounded by colors that are invisible to the living.

I truly see it, now, the rainbow Dad mentioned. My parents shape and sculpt their surroundings, depending on how they feel. Nothing is ever still, even when all is quiet and asleep. The motion is continuous, never-ending, revolving on an infinite spectrum.

Time moves so differently, too. Everything moves differently.

I quickly learn that getting too close to them causes me pain. If I dare invade their space, meld with that indescribable aura that seems to breathe as it shrinks and swells in cadence around them, I am inexorably pulled in, forced to feel with painful intensity the essence of the emotions they are experiencing in that moment.

In the aftermath of my death, my parents' emotions are as raw as they are turbulent.

If Mom is a lament, Dad is a howl.

…

Even as an odd, ghostly presence –an anomaly, some would say, I remain a fast learner. What I learn, the first time Mom falls asleep on my bed in the hours following my death, is dreams are different.

Special.

Once again, I come too close. I am simply mesmerized by the way her colors intensify the instant she begins to sleep. It seems to call out to me, drawing me nearer and nearer, until I find myself pulled in, not quite able to control my actions in this new form yet.

I go beyond experiencing her pain; I am completely immersed in everything she sees, becoming an active participant of her dreamscape.

_Etta…_

She murmurs my name into my ear, a whisper that echoes all around the room, a room I recognize as my childhood bedroom. Her arms are wrapped around me, and I _am_ a young child again, feeling so small compared to her, but also feeling so warm, safe and loved.

Dreams are special, indeed.

Dreams are the medium that allows me to communicate with the living, despite not remembering upon waking; dreams make no difference. At least, that's what I think at first. I am a fast learner.

So is Mom.

She sleeps a lot after I die.

She is never able to recall everything, but feels me so strongly when asleep that when she's awake, she rolls the bullet between her fingers, unable to shake the feeling that it has become so much more than a piece of lead that once pierced her skull. I know that for a fact now, as I have felt what she felt, saw her memories in distorted images flashing in some of her nightmares.

To me, everything has been turned upside down. When I was alive, dreams were always so ethereal and incoherent, so hard to hold on to once awake. In the way I now subsist, dreams become more substantial than the world I used to evolve in.

Dreams are intense, painful, and breathtaking.

Mom's dreams are filled with sensations, smells, touch and colors. They are as joyful as they are devastating. Most of the time, she thinks of me as a very small child instead of the adult I had become, and I cannot blame her.

To her, with the Amber gap, and considering how little time we had after she was freed, what governs in her mind and heart are not the few weeks we spent fighting together, but the three years she spent raising me.

Three years, one month and five days.

In her dreams, there is none of the uncertainty that had been holding her back, up until the moment of my death.

In her dreams, she is warm and loving, always trying so hard to protect me whenever the skies darken, and I am inevitably pulled away from her.

I cling to her, nestled in her arms, hiding my face in the crook of her neck; the echo of her voice resonates in an infinite plea, and her tears fall upon my skin like acid rain.

_I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…_

_I'm okay, Mama,_ I promise her.

But she never believes me.

…

The way humans feel affects the world around them.

It soon becomes evident that Mom, above anyone else, possesses the ability to reshape reality in the most tangible ways. Her colors always shine so brightly, making the particles vibrate incredibly fast. If perception is the key to transformation, emotion is the key to perception.

The thought of me always makes the world quiver around her.

As she stands in the street, between walls covered with posters promoting a future in order, my murderers' creation, the colors intensify.

Soon, my face replaces the Invaders'. I become a symbol, a call for resistance. I know it is of her doing.

Somehow, it is of mine too.

…

Dad never sleeps.

He probably would not have done some of the things he eventually does, if he had slept at least once. I could have reached in, the way I do with Mom. I could have let him know that I was _here_ , that I was okay.

But, Dad never sleeps; that is how I come to learn, even in death, regrets and frustration still exist, and it hurts.

The darkness surrounding him is too thick, too violent. The destructive pattern he soon enters almost seems like a natural progression. It might be understandable; it is by no mean bearable.

There is absolutely nothing I can do. I _am_ dead, and while Mom holds on to me with so much force that I sometimes feel she can almost sense me, even awake, I slip away from him as he loses himself.

He begins to turn into one of _them_ ; the instant the tech connects with his brain, the colors start to drain. If he keeps it in his head, there will come a time when I won't be able to see him at all.

He will become colorless, an icy space, the way every Invader looks to me.

Emotion is what shapes the human world, their reality. Without emotion, there is nothing to see.

He's forgetting my face.

The thought of me is driving him insane, but he's forgetting my face.

He fights, at first.

When he realizes the reshaping of his brain is taking over his emotions, he seeks mementos, spending most of his time in my apartment, searching for the sight of me, in pictures and old messages.

But, he has no chance against the technological poison in his brain, more potent than that in his heart.

All over the city, my face becomes more prominent, huge, covering hundreds of buildings, sometimes visible over a mile away, as if begging Dad to look up and _see_.

He sees so much, now, sees through time and space; but when I see the particles that make up the universe, all he sees are numbers. The colors are fading away from him.

I fade away from him.

…

Mom often dreams of the Park.

Whenever she does, it is hard for me not to get carried away, not to let go of my last grip on Earth and to…move on. At first, I thought this place was my own little piece of Heaven, but I know better now.

It's my purgatory, my in-between.

I still don't go, though.

I remain focused on Mom, who sits cross-legged on the grass with me, amongst an endless sea of dandelions. I stare at the bullet, dangling from her neck, even in her dreams. Most of all, I stare at her face, as she watches me, quietly, almost reverently.

We both find solace in these surreal moments, but are also deeply aware of what is blatantly missing from these visions; or rather, who. We love each other, and our bond has always been special, these dreams proof enough of that.

We've always felt somewhat unbalanced when it's only the two of us, though. Dad always was the cement of our family. He was when I was three, and again at twenty-four.

For every flower I pick, all the seeds I send soaring through the sky, each a temptation I fight against, I make the same wish.

I say the words out loud, just once:

_I wish Daddy would sleep._

As always, my voice sounds so wraithlike; tiny too, once again taking the appearance of a three year old.

Mom moves.

She extends a hand, gently taking the dandelion I was holding. Her eyes have left my face to stare at the soft cottony ball between her fingers.

 _Me too, baby girl,_ she whispers, her words a sad caress compared to the warmth of the breeze that moves through our hair _. Me too._

She blows into the seeds, making a wish of her own.

They rise into the air, a trail of broken trust and shattered dreams; her heart already knows what he has done, even if he has yet to admit it.

She's fading away from him, too.

…

I have never felt more a part of this world than when she uses the bullet for her makeshift gun.

It seems like for the first time since my body 'expired,' she trusts her instincts; trusts all these dreams she's been having, finally accepting what Simone has told her, only hours ago.

"Your daughter is still with you… even now."

She was too hurt to listen to her words, to find comfort in this woman's faith; her entire aura has darkened alarmingly since Dad told her the truth, causing her to flee from his presence.

As predicted, he is barely visible to me anymore.

The way I experience time allows me to be in different places simultaneously, though I rarely stay near him. Quite ironically, witnessing the slow eradication of his emotions is more painful than what his raging grief felt like.

I am there when he fights Windmark, however.

I see the sudden and intense flash of colors that takes over him when Windmark forces him to experience what I had experienced, forcing him to feel the love I've always associated with these images of us in the Park.

But it is gone as fast as it has come, crushed by Windmark's cold words.

"Your emotions make you weak."

I know how wrong this statement is.

Compared to Dad, Mom's emotions have never seemed more unruly. In turn, it makes it difficult for me to stay too close to her. When she finds herself trapped in that filthy warehouse, not unlike the one in which I died, staying by her side is the only thing I _can_ do.

All of my focus is directed upon the bullet, using this connection we share to try and make her _feel_ me, as I have now accepted the fact that she won't ever see me again, if not in her dreams, or on the posters that keep me from disappearing completely.

Today, the bullet is much more than a bond between us, and I need her to feel it, to use it. She's never made a gun out of random pieces of junk, but I have.

When you live in a wrecked world, you learn to make weapons out of anything; as my Grandfather once told me, resistance must take place at any opportunity. I had been with Simon that day, when, admittedly, I had been the one who had gotten us into a shady deal that swiftly turned into an ominous situation; he was the one who had quickly come up with a solution.

He was probably the only person I would ever have trusted enough to use the bullet in such a way without a moment's hesitation. He made sure to get it back as soon as it had served its purpose, giving me a knowing look; he never had to ask what it meant to me.

I like to think the thought of Simon eventually allows Mom to truly feel me, to _see_ what I'm showing her.

After all, emotion is the key to perception.

The solution finally appears in her mind, and she immediately goes into action.

Within minutes, she's free.

I watch as she retrieves the bullet from the door. Though I have moved away again, distancing myself in an attempt to disentangle her emotions from mine, she remains incredibly aware of my presence; she looks amazingly clear to me. Never before have I been able to see her so clearly while she's awake, having everything to do with how I have never felt so physically _here_ before.

When she calls Walter and hears Dad's name, she looks back at the bullet, all thoughts on me. Soon, a new color blooms around her.

Hope.

…

She seeks him in the rain.

The moment she joins him and kneels by his side, the grey of his aura begins to recede ever so slightly; I know then without a shadow of a doubt that she will reach him.

And she does.

With her words and the thought of me, she finds the crack.

_We can't let her be erased._

He uses a knife to cut the tech out of his brain, offering it to her, almost in defeat. Gently, she takes it away from his bloody fingers, replacing it with the bullet, enclosing it in the palm of his hand.

His abilities for humanity.

He collapses in her arms, and it is beautiful, the way her colors envelop him, shield him, revive him.

He grieves against her and she soothes him with a soft hand and quiet words of love, her nose buried in his hair as he cries.

Slowly, his colors begin to reappear.

They grow, intensify, and merge with hers, until they form a unique rainbow that is entirely theirs.

…

For the first time since I died, Dad sleeps.

He doesn't dream, though.

In the hours following the extraction of the tech, his body finally gives up, helped by some potent drugs Walter poured into his blood after finishing stitching his neck.

He's in pain and agitated, feverish.

Mom lies down with him, resting most of her battered body against his; her presence seems to help. Still, long after she has fallen asleep, rightfully exhausted, he keeps on trembling, trapped in a restless, dreamless slumber.

I move closer to him, as always drawn by Mom's dreams. I want to offer him some comfort and peace, ignoring the sting of his pain, until I hover over him.

I don't have a body, but if I did, my fingers would be on his face, probably much smaller than my adult hand was; I always felt more like the child I once was around him.

His eyes flutter open, gaze unfocused, almost delirious.

Yet, he sees me.

He _sees_ me.

"Etta…" he murmurs, his voice so weak, broken by his earlier sorrow, still consuming him now.

It is that same raw emotion, along with his fever, that allows the air to vibrate in such a way that enables him to catch a glimpse of me.

I smile softly.

 _It's alright, Daddy,_ I whisper gently to his mind _. I'm okay, now._

I truly am.

He's in pain, they both are, but I am not worried anymore. The color of hope shines once more in their entangled auras.

He closes his eyes again, and at long last, he begins to dream.

I follow.

…

They share the same dream.

They dream of me.

I have taken Mom's place, nestled against his chest, but she's here, with us. I feel her fingers in my hair, stroking gently, the way she always used to do, whenever I would climb into their bed in the early hours of the day.

Like now.

I feel the heat of their bodies, all of us snuggled up beneath the thick blanket, and I feel so warm and cozy in this soft cocoon.

I move, wriggling up slightly, needing to see Dad's face, and our eyes meet in the gentle light of dawn. I bring my face closer to his, until I can brush my nose against his, an Eskimo kiss we used to share at least ten times a day.

His lips curl up into a smile, his hand coming up to my face, thumb tracing what he jokingly used to call my 'chubby chipmunk cheeks.' Behind me, Mommy has come closer too, until my back is pinned against her chest, her arms enveloping Dad and I; I feel her breath in my hair, the warmth of her love.

We stay like this for a long time. Maybe only half a second passes in the human world, but to us, it feels much longer.

My thoughts eventually drift toward the Park, and it is all it takes for us to be there.

I'm in Daddy arms, our cheeks pressed together as we stare at this familiar scenery, my very last one.

The grass is rich and green, so full of life, the ground entirely covered with dandelions.

I turn my head, looking for Mom. She's lying down on the picnic blanket with a book, though her eyes are on me.

She offers me a tender smile, followed by a small tilt of her head, moving her eyes to look at the flowers; she has given me her silent consent.

But it isn't quite enough.

I look back at Dad, and he's smiling too. There is something sad in his smile, like Mom's, but his eyes are as kind and comforting as they always were with me. He has to let me go, but he knows now that I will never disappear, not completely.

Their love will keep me alive, long after I'm gone.

He kisses my cheek, then, his lips lingering close to my ear, finally murmuring the words I had been waiting to hear.

_Go make a wish, kiddo._

He lets me go.

I start running, as fast as my legs will take me. Dandelion seeds begin to swirl around me, drifting upward, toward a place where wishes come true.

And I do much more than outrun the wind.

I become the wind that carries them away.


End file.
